


Jim's Six Times at Baker Street: 1

by debunker



Series: Such a pity you're not home, Sherlock... But I'll wait. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Jim pays a visit, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock's Scarf - Freeform, TAB-Prompted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 03:25:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5650822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debunker/pseuds/debunker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically my brain exploded after TAB and I'm still collecting its tiny bits and sporting a hole almost rivaling that of Moriarty's.<br/>So Sherlock says Moriarty has got acquainted himself with his place and it took him 6 times to do so.<br/>Sounds like a prompt, doesn't it?<br/>This is the first time when Moriarty sneaks into Sherlock's nest and does he enjoy it! Especially the bed, you know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jim's Six Times at Baker Street: 1

So easy to get into 221B Baker St. Really no need to break in, the door is not even locked. An invite to come and visit? Well, as soon as Sherlock is away, someone has to warm the place up a little now that John is not around anymore. By the way, doubt he ever managed to heat it. In any sense.  
Moriarty comes up the familiar steps.  
Oh, that smell of the old wallpaper, acidy reagents left neglected on the kitchen table, something even nastier locked up in the fridge, Sherlock’s shampoo (certainly left with his hair still semiwet).  
Mrs. Hudson is sleeping tight these nights, with a little help of drugged tea of course, had to take precautions.  
Too good of a chance to let it go ruined by some stupid circumstance. Nothing really interesting in the sitting room, just a pack of cigarettes stuck between the layers of the armchair upholstery. Well, Jim has brought something better than tobacco rolls. Anyway, the idea of getting here and having the whole house for himself gets him high already. The night is young.  
Jim takes the door handle and pushes the door of Sherlock’s bedroom, shivering with anticipation as it is opening slowly with a slight creak. Oh, hello at last.  
Well, actually the cameras never give the idea of the true situation. He has been here so many times, virtually, in his head, seeing Sherlock sleep or run from wall to wall trying to find an answer to one of his puzzles. Delicious, truly entertaining. But nothing is like the thrill of _contact_. Nothing is like the first time. Jim is almost moved. This is almost romantic. Hollywood could make a truly tear-squeezing scene of this.  
Jim still holds the metal knob. It is like a handshake. Now I’m here baby.  
He makes his slow steps into the room. So silent, so empty without the famous tall figure inside it. Has this house ever had any character before? Not entirely sure of that.  
The periodic table of elements framed. Elementary. Pfff. Oh, please, the guy needs some advice on the matter of design. The room is only lit with some dim light entering through the single window. The wardrobe mirror is gleaming slightly in the dark. He opens the wardrobe making dust fly up and fall down slowly in the strip of light. Down, down, circulating. I owe you a fall…  
Jim reaches out giving a lazy caress to Sherlock’s shirts and blazers. He pulls out a blue scarf off the hanger. Not the blue scarf, Sherlock is certainly wearing it now. Its twin sitting here all abandoned, but still used as Jim can feel the smell. He inhales deeply in an attempt to fill his lungs with that smell, to inflate every single air cell with that mix of Sherlock’s scent, his aftershave, the very taste of his skin, his breath, the warmth of his neck. This is better than coke in his pocket. He coils the scarf around his neck. The cozy fabric hugging it mildly. Not his style, decidedly not, but suits Sherlock so well. A little touch to create an atmosphere of intimacy.  
He checks Sherlock’s pockets. Not really much in them. Oh, a pen, what luck. Jim fishes a simple BIC slim pen and slaps it tight. Not much of a souvenir, but it’s just the beginning. There’s more to inspect.  
He turns around ready to proceed, caressing the pen lid with his thumb.  
Books on the bedside table, books and nicotine patches, a mug with traces of tea in it. Boring. He’d know what to fill it with to keep Sherlock entertained. The bed is unmade. Must still smell like him. Too big of a temptation to check it, impossible to resist.  
Indeed, Jim does not try to. He lays down with a dreamy smile, not really bothering to take off his shoes.  
The bed is large enough to spread his arms. Would it be comfortable for the two of them he wonders? They would have to really squeeze up. Not that Jim would mind.  
He closes his eyes floating in pure joy. The moment is all to savor. No rush.  
His left hand lifts up to caress one of the pillows with his knuckles. The light grey fabric is soft and cool. He imagines sleeping Sherlock, his sharp cheek pressed against it, so delightful to watch. Must be even more delightful to watch at a short distance. Patience, the day will come…  
Jim turns his head to the side and buries his face in the pillow, pulling the bed sheets up, squeezing them, covering himself with this cloud of a sensorial orgasm. Sherlock, Sherlock all over him. He inhales, licks and bites the cotton, it smells, it tastes divine, the scarf around his neck tightens as the edges get under him. The idea of getting strangled by Sherlock’s scarf is really _sexy_. The sexier thing would only be shot by his… _gun_. Hit me with your best shot Sherlock. _Mind-blowing_.  
He pulls the scarf harder, the oxygen stream to his brain getting weaker, the stirring desire taking shape in this nest of cloth, Sherlock’s nest. Oh, he does sleep naked in here.  
The images of Sherlock’s body and their encounters flush over Moriarty, running down his spine in a cold and exciting river of impulses, making him shift his feet and rub himself into the mattress. The friction is all Moriarty feels right now, all teased up. He does not even need to touch himself, getting off has never been more spontaneous. He rubs his fully clothed sex against the bed, breathing hard in the loop of the scarf, his neatly combed hair becoming a mess under the bed sheet, thrown over his head. He starts when the downside of his cock brushes over the pleats of the bed sheets, he’s so sensitive there.  
Autoerotic asphyxiation would be a good option if it were not so underrated by Sherlock. Not that he could understand the kick. Moriarty would have to show him. He imagines Sherlock under him, panting and praying for air, desperate and hard and _undone_. Trying to say something, to plead Jim to let him breathe but unable to produce a sound. Jim leans down closer to hear him speak but only a hiss goes out.  
\- I can’t hear Sherlock dear. I can’t hear anything... - And he pulls harder. The slipknot on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s scarf on his own neck.  
Jim can’t hear anything, his ears are tapped, a hot, lusty, total orgasm shakes his body pouring on the inside of his poshy suit. Sorry, Westwood.  
It takes him some minute to come back from the world of his tantalizing fantasies. He flips over and rests on his back, all his muscles relaxing in the post-climax slow dizziness. The scarf now feels too hot and tight around his neck and he tosses it down on the bed licking his lips. He looks down at his trousers sporting a growing stain which feels warm and sticky against his thigh. He closes his eyes with dark satisfaction.  
Now Sherlock will have a chance to smell me too.

**Author's Note:**

> Music  
> Lana Del Rey - High By The Beach


End file.
